Dinner is served.

Dinner is served.

A Poem by andrew mitchell

He placed his hands
around the neck of life itself
and shook the very
foundations from it
to the last breath.

Was he God
or just another
Boston strangler?

No! It was just man
playing with Mother.
For what Mother provided
Man had a way of
clearing the table.

© 2019 andrew mitchell


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Added on March 22, 2019
Last Updated on March 22, 2019

Author

andrew mitchell
andrew mitchell

adelaide, Australia



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Strindberg said. " When I come home and sit at my writing table, then I live.... I live, and I live in manifold fashion of all human beings. I depict; I am glad with the glad, wicked with the wicked,.. more..